Festival of Deaths(117)
“Well, it’s like I told you, nobody’s been up for at least an hour. Before we got a flurry or two, during visiting hours, you know. There was that black lady, you know, with the hair—”
“DeAnna Kroll.”
“Yeah. Shecker says she gives him heart palpitations. And he’s white. I mean, excuse me. I didn’t—”
“Never mind,” John said wearily, “who else?”
“Oh, the two crazy ladies. You know. Shirley and Sheila. Susan and Sandra—”
“Shelley and Sarah,” Gregor said.
“Yeah, them. They’re nuts. First one of them goes tearing up, then the other one does. Then one of them goes tearing up, then the other one does. I think they’re following each other.”
“Which was it the last time? Up or out?” Gregor asked.
“Up,” the cop said. “The tall thin one—”
“Shelley Feldstein,” John put in.
“She went up. That was just around eight o’clock.”
“What about the other one?” Gregor asked.
“The short fat one. I didn’t see her.”
“Had she gone out previously?” Jackman asked.
“Oh, yeah. But that doesn’t mean anything. You have to go through the lobby to get to the cafeteria, so she may have never left the building.”
“Wouldn’t you have seen her when she came back?” Gregor asked.
“Not if she went across the bridge on eleven. It’s a weird way around but some people—”
“That’s why we have a man on Five North,” John put in. “Because in a building this big there have to be half a dozen ways to get to any one place. It’s inevitable.”
“Mmm,” Gregor said.
“You want to get going?” Jackman said.
Gregor got going.
He hadn’t noticed it before, but this part of the lobby was decorated with all the feverish intensity Donna Moradanyan brought to Cavanaugh Street. There were Hanukkah candles and Stars of Bethlehem. There was a life-size statue of the Madonna cradling her Child. There was a tall wicker basket full of hard Christmas candy with a sign that said
“TAKE SOME”
on the side. Leave it to the nuns. Not “take one,” “take some.”
“Wait a minute,” Gregor said. “Let me work this out. DeAnna Kroll is in or out?”
“In,” the cop said.
“How about Lotte Goldman?”
“Also in.”
“Sarah Meyer?”
“Out, I think.”
“And Shelley Feldstein is in?”
“That’s right.”
“I suppose that leaves Itzaak Blechmann,” Gregor said. “He should be in.”
“He should be in all night,” John Jackman said. “That Kroll woman went to no end of trouble to get permission for him to stay with Carmencita Boaz for the night. The nuns were a little uneasy because the two of them weren’t married, but Señorita Boaz is in no shape to engage in any hanky-panky, so they relented. It would be odder if he had come down and gone out.”
“All right,” Gregor said, “but it still doesn’t add up.”
“Add up to what?”
“There are too many,” Gregor said. He punched the button to summon the elevator, but he didn’t have to wait. The cars were all at lobby level. The doors opened as soon as he put his finger on the button. Gregor stepped into the nearest car and beckoned John Jackman to follow him.
“There are too many people upstairs,” he said. “You’ve got to add the cop into the equation. Our murderer is not a stupid person.”
“Maybe our murderer is waiting for the day after tomorrow,” Jackman said. “If nothing happens between now and then, we’ll pull our cop off. And there’s no reason not to wait until then. Even if Carmencita Boaz knows who hit her, she’s not going to be able to say a thing about it for at least two weeks.”
“She’s going to be able to write.”
“Not for a couple of days,” Jackman said. “Right now, she can’t sit up in bed without giving herself a headache the size of Godzilla and totally impervious to painkillers. She’s out of the game for the next good little time now.”
“She’s going to be able to point.”
“Right. This is pushing it, Gregor.”
Gregor sighed. “She doesn’t know who hit her. I’ll practically guarantee it—”
“You didn’t ask, did you?” Jackman sounded alarmed. “The doctors practically said we’d kill her if we asked tonight and I told all my people to keep their mouths shut until tomorrow—”